


Goddamn Bleeding-Heart Types

by nimrodcracker



Series: a blinding flash [14]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: F/F, Friends in Strange Places, Gen, Mild Hero Worship, The Railroad, Tragic Backstories Are A Suitable Peace Offering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-18 06:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15479922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: She'd rather be daydreaming about Ms Wright and the myriad of ways to put her smart mouth to use, but… whatsername? Jenessa? Has decided that shooting the breeze in a church basement where mostly everyone present's asleep is a brilliant idea.AKA, the Sole Survivor figures out her fellow Railroad agent, and sets a plan in motion.





	Goddamn Bleeding-Heart Types

**Author's Note:**

> good things are coming after this, especially on the amata/lone wanderer front :) i got inspired. more meet ugly instances because i LOVE pitting my ocs against each other. hope you enjoy the ride!
> 
> (note: amata isn't in the fic, but the entire fic centres around her r/ship with the lone wanderer - thusly, tagged)

Idle time on her hands usually doesn't rub her wrong, but this time, agitation's in her system and a thorough wipe-down of her pistols hasn't done much for her. She hankers for a stick of Grey Tortoise between her fingers, craving the intoxicating rush of smoke filling her lungs. Or heck, even Sugar Bombs will do, just to have her fingers occupied.

Too bad she's dry out and trapped in Railroad HQ, on the few instances Dez orders a lockdown given Institute sightings topside. After Ticonderoga, they're not taking any chances, so tight 'n quiet is how they'll remain for now.

Actually, nah. She can sneak out if she wants and no one will notice - she's a ghost when she wants to be. Dez lets her off the hook more than she should, often enough that Carrington's justified in calling this favouritism if he raises it - which he doesn't, because the Institute is a more pressing concern and Cheshire's one of their best heavies, alongside Glory. What's a few flouted protocols to that?

Anyway, she's just lazy. Doesn't help that there's a fellow agent beside her in this alley of a back room, cross-legged and leaning on the wall like it's her spine. (Thankfully, with eyes closed.) She'll have to distract her then, or wait for an opportunity that she hasn't the will to watch out for.

Adrián glances over as she hangs her pistol holsters on the edge of a wall shelf. She figures this agent out with a single glance; open expression, open posture. An ever-present smile between those cuppable, round cheeks. Even without a word, Adrián can  _taste_  the enthusiasm oozing from her - even over the smell of topside and the faint reek of blood.

God. More of those bleeding-heart types, too good for this shithole of wasteland life. Fucking annoying that Adrián's drawn to protect people like her - she still can't understand how in blazes she's smitten with one either.

But Piper's one hell of a woman, and there's no one better Adrián can ask for. Damn the blush that's creeping on her cheeks - she's got a rep to maintain.

"Can't sleep?"

Adrián shakes her head, bringing herself back to the present with a blink. She'd rather be daydreaming about Ms Wright and the myriad of ways to put her smart mouth to use, but… whatsername? Jenessa? Has decided that shooting the breeze in a church basement where mostly everyone present's asleep is a brilliant idea.

Least she's too absorbed in her monologue to notice Adrián's blush - even if Adrián's wearing her Minuteman hat, it can't cover her cheeks. As far as the wasteland's concerned, Cheshire does not blush.

"It's the antsiness, sometimes," Jen continues. "Tonight… I don't know what it is."

"Probably the stink of mold, unwashed bodies and general terror of being discovered by the Institute, just like at the Switchboard."

"That's… frighteningly specific," Jen laughs, strained, like piano wire that's been pulled too much. It's coiled and heavy on Adrián's right wrist, a comforting weapon and weight she glances at idly, for no reason. She doesn't have to, actually - she has a blade in her right boot, sharpened keys on her belt, and knuckles as hard as steel.

Adrián shrugs. "I know I'm right."

"Right…" Jen looks at her with such  _awe_  it unsettles Adrián. Fine, she's giddy from such gross admiration, but seriously? She knows what'll shoot out of those lips soon.

Jen leans in, eyes sparkling with starry-eyed wonder. "So you're the Vault Dweller? I used to live in one, too. Did you like it in there? I really did. I mean, I didn't really have a choice so it was enjoy my time, or stay miserable - but as you can see, I left eventually. Yeah."

God. She'd appreciate that cigarette right about now. Then again, least the fawning isn't about her exploits as the sole survivor of Vault triple one. She's so successful at her blasé, fearless act because she  _doesn't_  shovel up shit that's better off buried in her mind.

She hasn't felt sadness, not in a long while. Just anger.

Glorious, searing anger.

Adrián wets her lips; an action Jen's eyes dart to. Cheeky girl. "Don't tell me you're this friendly with everyone."

"I am. I get cised talking to people, it makes me happy. I love making new friends too because the wasteland's a desolate place and I… I hope I'm not bothering you."

"Actually, you're not - which is strange, but never mind."

Honestly? She'd rather be anywhere but miles underground and boxed in by four walls, but there's a innocent, child-like sense to the redhead that reels Adrián in, because she chafes against the roughened edges hiding beneath that disarming exterior. A fascinating puzzle; one Adrián itches to pick apart, the way she's driven to figure out anyone around her. Lingering instincts of her agent days, and she's not one to discard something so obviously useful. "You're not from the 'wealth, right? You enunciate your words. Not drawl 'em like them Bostonians."

"Oh. No, I'm not. I'm from the Capital Wasteland, up north." Jen frowns after, no doubt that tech-wired brain of hers whirring to take in her assessment of her. Even without the familiarity of colleagues united by the constant threat of death, there's no mistaking Jen's methodical, pathological need to dissect things into their constituent parts. "Is my accent obvious? Nobody's said that before, except Deacon. Wait, how did you know?"

_I was a federal black ops agent for a fascist country, shattering drug rings and underground familia until I discovered that the force wasn't shutting down the drug trade or collaborating with gangs to better monitor them. Instead, they were creating power vacuums they could exploit by planting state agents as business heads and recreating drug networks for a profit._

Adrián  _grins_ , pearly-whites and all, but pretends to be bashful instead, wiping her glasses on the sleeves of her flannel shirt she'd shrugged out of hours ago. Now, she drapes it on her bare stomach, leaving her clad in a simple tank top and leagues cooler than before without unnecessary layers on her skin.

As much as she'll be fucking amused by the aftermath of being frank, there's no merit in being free with one's secrets - erasing herself completely from all conceivable records had been the grandest finale of her fucked-up career. So, she doesn't exist, and never has. A pretty face isn't good enough a reason to revoke her status as a ghost.

"I studied languages before. It was part of my job."

Ha. Fucking. Ha. As always, it's effortless to keep the laughter down, repressed deep inside her belly with the inhale of air before her booming laugh.

"You were a teacher? Cool. I liked my teacher, Mr Brotch. He never played favourites or picked on anyone."

"Jen? You there?" Someone pokes his head past the door, and the bellboy cap is a giveaway.

Finally. Adrián heard his footsteps bouncing against the walls a minute ago, no doubt attracted by Jen's loud voice. Funny, Jen's short and pudgy like small kid - but nowhere as old as one. Yet, Adrián can't stop thinking of her as one.

_Oh_ , it finally clicks. That's what makes Jen dangerous.

Drummer Boy tenses upon seeing Adrián, but his expression brightens on seeing Jen. "PAM's looking for you. Says she wants to uh, 'run some numbers' with you."

"Thanks, Dee-Bee. I'll see her later. You're not sleeping?"

He smiles that annoying smile of his, ducking his gaze and jerking his shoulders in a shrug. Oh, Adrián's certain that's a blush on his cheeks. Predictable. "Still on shift. Got half an hour to go. But hey, thanks for asking."

He tips his hat at Jen and mumbles a greeting to Adrián. Soon enough, it's the both of them and the damp stickiness of Railroad HQ clinging to their skin.

High time Adrián steered the conversation away from her, and towards this curious, sweet thing - and that's exactly what she does with a smirk. "He's attracted to you."

Jen frowns. "I know. I don't have the heart to tell him. He's so nice."

"Nailed it." Adrián rolls her eyes, leaning against the wall again. "I knew you're friendly to everyone. It's how you are."

But Jen's demeanour changes,  _sinks_  way before that. When Adrián quietens, that's when she sighs - as if she bears the weight of a vertibird landing on her back. "It's- I have a girl back home."

"Oh."  _Oh_. That, Adrián failed to pick on. Good girls like her get the girls, don't they? But in this line of work? That fact stops Adrián from committing to any of her lovers - only promises made for moments, because she can't promise a future.

Anyhow, she's paying attention now. Shifts her weight to her feet and her knees, instead of the wall. Makes it effortless by combing through her fresh gray hair, strands still frizzy from the recent dye job. Its previous pink as good as a  _come-get-me_  to the xenophobic fascists strutting about in their fancy uniforms and on their infuriating balloon, or worse, the labcoat God-types holed up miles underground who think knowledge gives them the right to fuck people over. Oh, that's aside overlooking their literal slavery of synths, treating them as disposable and property. Both threats to Adrián's personal freedom, and that's why she hasn't tripped over her feet to join them. Something about personal interests-

_acknowledging your morals, Ana, doesn't erode your tough girl persona_

-and the distaste of bending to authority other than her own.

Adrián shakes her head, shakes off the sudden voice of Piper ringing in her head. She's under no illusions - that voice is here to stay. Better hers and others who mean something to her. Those who know her  _real_  name because she needs to trust her head.

Jen doesn't sense Adrián's disquiet, doesn't pick on the sudden absence to her presence. After all, Adrián is here, sitting beside her. Only Adrián's eyes give her away, mismatched gray-brown opaque and unfocused behind glass lenses - albeit briefly. A rookie mistake; one Adrián will never be guilty of, only because she allows herself to commit it. A mistake she masks with a roll of her shoulders, creaking as she shakes the stiffness from her bones.

"Most of the Railroad don't have anyone left, and it's safer that way. I don't blame you." Jen pauses, contemplates her words. Not because she lacks the words, no - Adrián knows her to be a chatterbox, but not when it concerns expressing her feelings. "It's been, what, eight years? Nine? Yet, I still feel this for her. Even when she basically booted me out. The last thing she said to me was to leave and never return, 'cause the stability of the Vault meant more to her than what we shared."

A childhood sweetheart. Adrián cannot think of anything more revolting than this, yet…

_what she scorns cannot hurt her_

"Strangely, I'm not angry at her. Can never be. It wouldn't be her if she didn't insist on the high road."

Yet, Adrián will not begrudge Jen her sorrow, because she sees it clear on her face. If not, in Jen's stubborn refusal to cry, the way she bites her lips, bites her nails. Bites down the overwhelming urge to let her feelings dictate her mannerisms.

For someone Adrián's written off as soft, she displays remarkable self-restraint. There's steel under those soft curves and innocent smiles, and Adrián is… impressed. Intrigued, actually. "Tell me about her."

"Oh man." Jen huffs. "Where do I start? Amata, she's- she's my everything. Best friend, co-conspirator, first love… she's just an inspiration. I don't know how to explain it. Even if we're apart, not just in distance, she's the best thing that's happened to me." At Adrián's skeptical hum, Jen begins to nod. "Yeah, even whatever's in the wasteland can't compete with her, because she's irreplaceable."

"Amata…"

"Almodovar. I still remember the colour of her eyes. Still remember the sound of her laughter in my head."

Adrián's drawn to how Jen fiddles with the bottlecap she wears as a necklace; pulled out from beneath the collar of her coveralls, dinged at the edges.

_Trinkets_ , Adrián notes with a tilt of her head.  _From a better time._

"Still see her in my sleep," Jen mumbles. Eyes glassy, and clearly far from here. "Doing what we used to, just like old times."

_After all these years._  Adrián catches herself, catches how her own thoughts drift to a time  _before_ , without a nuclear fallout, without the grief of a survivor. She sees messy brown curls and a garden of daffodils in her mind, and finds herself spiralling back into the abyss of unresolved grief and regret.

( _still_ ).

"A romantic. I'm not surprised." Inwardly, Adrián counts backwards from ten. Stops her thoughts by examining the bottlecap Jen fiddles with, gleans the make and the flavour from a glance out the corner of her eyes. (Not gross Nuka-Cola, interestingly - she has good taste.) Identifying information critical to tracking something - or someone - down, but as always, without raising suspicion. For example, under the pretence of picking at the fabric of her fingerless gloves. "Got a picture of her?"

"I wish I did. It would be nice to have something of her that's not something I made her. I'm terrified I'll forget how she looks like, because that'll be as if what we shared never happened at all."

"Pity. What d'you think she's up to now?"

"Overseeing the Vault, I suppose. It's her life. She isn't one to shirk responsibility. Plus, her father groomed her for it. Practically handed the role over to her on a plate. How could she refuse? She'll always be that little girl, starving for her father's attention." A sigh. "She envied me for that. My relationship with my father. Even though he's-" Jen stiffens, eyes widening momentarily - but she composes herself impeccably. "Despite everything."

Lesser eyes would've considered Jen's flinch of self-censoring as a trick of the half-light, but Adrián is but a professional at reading people. Reading expressions, and everything within. Even at age two hundred and over.

She reads Jen's lips without effort at all.  _Even though he's dead._

Still, she pretends not to notice. She's gathered all she needs to. "Find it a bit strange that you're telling me all this. Though I'm getting the feeling you vomit your life history to everyone you meet."

"Oh  _snap_. Am I making you uncomfortable? Because I'll stop. I keep weirding people out just by telling them things. Just like how I used to have a Stealth Assaultron buddy, but she was destroyed while we were fleeing a Brotherhood airstrike and there was no way I could fix her. Like, even if I love machines and cuddle a spanner to sleep, I can't fix her up from ash."

"No, it's alright. I'm just not used to people being so forthright with me. Personal things, especially."  _Not without torturing them first._

"Ah." Jen catches herself, lowers her volume. Curls into herself too, her head dipping and her shoulders drooping. "Ah okay. Thank you. I don't mind telling anyone if they asked, you know? Because there's no shame in baring your soul. It's courage. It took me years, but I finally realised that, you know. Oh, and ranting keeps me sane too. Had friends who worked at a bar, so gossip and venting's just their thing. And… I miss them too."

"Funny," Adrián says, lips curved in a sardonic smile. It's at that moment when Jen meets her gaze. Bewilderment creeps into her expression the longer Adrián speaks. "You speak highly of your companions, but you're here. Worlds apart. I take it you don't want to go home, 'cause it'd force you to see if things have changed. That's what terrifies you so. It'd shatter you if it has. The one thing you wilt at."

Jen simply gapes. Adrián can hear Carrington snoring in the main hall.

Satisfied and smug, Adrián rests her head against the wall, hands interlocked and nestled snug in the stiff strands of her undercut. Truly, it's a surprise that she's enjoying this conversation. That's why she hasn't ended it earlier with the freedom of no less than ten methods - five lethal, two involving legwork, all requiring effort she's unwilling to expend. So yes. She's just gonna try to get some shut-eye, even if her head is whizzing from the scattered pieces of an idea knitting itself together.

"Just… just who are you? Guess- _Reading_  my thoughts like a mind doctor. But you're a teacher. Aren't you?"

" _Darling…_ " Adrián traces a finger, feather-light, along Jen's jaw without warning, so much that the girl startles to Adrián's snort. "I do try, sometimes. Teachers need to read their students well."

"Adrián Valenti, right? I like you. Even though you're a bit creepy with your mind reading and all that."

"Impressive. I'm someone's friend in less than an hour."

"You mean you don't make friends easily? Strange. You have this air about you, you know."

Adrián waves it off and swipes for her hat sitting on the shelf, behind her holsters. She notices nicks on the edges of the brim, grazes from bullets she runs headlong into. Like she's done for entire lifetimes. "I've been told that, yeah."

And that's it. That's how she strings people along, lulls them in with the innocently unaware act and a killer smile that strips away layers of suspicion in a heartbeat. The Railroad call her  _Cheshire_ , not without reason.

"You better believe it," Jen says as she clambers to her feet, the tools in her pockets and pouches jingling along. "I like you a lot because I feel comfortable around you. Anyway, I gotta talk to PAM now, alright? See you around."

Comfortable, huh? It'll be interesting to see if Jen sings the same tune if Adrián tells all about her sordid past. But now isn't the time.

Instead, Adrián wears her hat and tips it at the redhead in goodbye. "I will, short stuff."

" _Hey!_ "

* * *

_Memo tacked on a terminal screen, dated March 14th, 2287_

 

> Hey Dez,
> 
> I'm in the mood for a trip to the Capital Wasteland. Please tell me you need a heavy for packages, or any outstanding Railroad business outbound from the Commonwealth. I want to see that city on a ship that Deacon keeps raving about.
> 
> I promise to be good. No kneecapping and unnecessary contact with Institute drones. At least, ones they're aware of.
> 
> Cheshire.
> 
> P/S Please. Let me clean up our Courser-infested routes if that's what it takes.

 

_Decoded memo collected from a dead drop, dated March 18th, 2287_

 

> Cheshire,
> 
> You? Written notes? And using please? Not once, but multiple times?
> 
> Holiday approved. Package brief enclosed. Boston is getting too hot and crowded these weeks - you do more good outside than staying in during lockdowns. I expect to see you back in three weeks.
> 
> This must be important to you. Keep safe.
> 
> Alpha.


End file.
